


When I'm Down

by peterflopker



Category: Avengers: Endgame (2019), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Domestic Avengers, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Malnutrition, Minor Injuries, Overworking, Passing Out, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Protective Avengers, Protective Tony Stark, Sleep Deprivation, Team as Family, Tony Stark Has A Heart, but we knew that already, caring Avengers, i think, peter is tired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 04:22:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19124491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterflopker/pseuds/peterflopker
Summary: It's hard being a teenage superhero. Trauma, nightmares, the works. So it's a good idea to have a couple of friends with some experience.Or, Peter sometimes has a hard time taking care of himself.





	When I'm Down

**Author's Note:**

> I barely even know what's going on in this one, folks. I'm kinda just tired

 

1.

“He’s really out of it, isn’t he?” Despite the way he shoves the young boy around, Bucky isn’t afraid to show the concern in his voice, even more so that the boy in question is too far deep in his sleep to even know that he is there.

“Yeah, he’s had a rough week.” Steve looks down at the kid who looks so small in his arms. The dark circles under his closed eyes and purple bruises that blemish his pale face make him wish that he had the power to make him take off the mask. However, he knows that if Peter’s aunt or Tony Stark hadn’t been successful, then he surely wouldn’t. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt that much to try if the boy is just going to work until he literally passes out.

The two walk through the Compound, treading carefully as to not jostle Peter awake prematurely and have him go another thirty-eight hours without sleep. Wanda passes them in the kitchen, staring at their tiny cargo with worry in her eyes and uses her red wisps to move his fallen curls from his face. They saunter past Rhodey with a nod to his question of “Is he okay?”, and together they thank Sam as he opens the door to Peter’s room for them.

Steve carefully steps over the mess of blueprints and lego pieces on the floor until he reaches the boy’s bed, while Bucky moves the comforter out of the way to make room to place Peter’s body on the mattress. They slowly remove his shoes and cautiously set him down, wincing when the boy whines in his sleep.

With joint effort, they efficiently tuck him in with the Howling Commandos blanket they had bought Peter the Christmas before and light the lavender candle right next to his bed.

“The kid needs to learn how to take a break.” Bucky whispers, arms crossed tight over his chest. “He’s gonna get as bad as we are if he keeps this up.”

“Yeah.” The image of Spider-Man getting injured, or worse, in the middle of a battle because of his declining health flashes through Steve’s mind, and it takes everything in him to not let it go any further. “Well, we won’t let him.”

 

2.

“I can’t do it.” The youngest hero tearily whispers to himself with his trembling arms encasing his body. “I can’t do it.”

Rhodey bites down harshly on his bottom lip as he stares at the boy on the floor, choosing to focus on Peter and not at the metal boxing around his own legs. The first couple attempts were filled with determination, the seventh with hesitation, four more with bubbling anger, and a breakdown at twelve.

“You can, Peter. Try again.” Rhodey advises, voice strong enough for the both of them.

“I’m going to fall again.” Peter whimpers as his fingernails begin to dig deep into the skin of his stomach. “And then it’s going to hurt when I stand back up.”

The older man just holds out a steady hand for him to grab.

Peter allows his tears to fall on their own account when he looks up and finds his lost motivation within the colonel’s eyes. He forces down the sob back into his throat, and while one hand had digs further into his skin, the other grips onto the man’s.

Pain shoots up his spine as he moves to his feet and he cries out with the weight of his previous failures pushing him onto his buckling knees until Rhodey wraps a careful arm around his waist and holds up half of his weight. If his nails bury themselves into the meat of the man’s shoulders, he doesn’t even make a sound.

“Rhodey, it  _ hurts, _ ” Peter whispers.

The arms around his waist tighten, ensuring that Peter won’t crash into the ground until he tries again, and he doesn’t need to look at the taller man’s face to know that his eyes are clenched shut.

“I know, Pete, I know.” Peter finds peace in the murmur of his friend’s voice, ignoring the ache in his legs. “But you need to try again, alright?”

The shorter shakes his head against the other’s chest, hands moving to clutch at the tear-stained shirt without the willingness to let go. Rhodey tenderly wraps his long mocha fingers around Peter’s ivory wrist to pull him away, not letting him fall or let him use him like a lifeline.

“Just one more time, okay? One more time, then I’ll have Tony come down and you can take your break.” Rhodey promises, stabling Peter enough that he can stand on his own which is already a vast improvement.

“Just one more?” Is his croaky response.

“Just one more.” The colonel reassures.

Without the aid of another, his fears shoot from one side of his mind to the other, creating a neutron of self-doubt before he can even attempt to lift a foot forward. When he does, he is barely lifting a limb but rather cinderblocks of neuropathic pain. Exhaustion has a feast on his strength and every cup of water he has had in the past three days is wasting away through his pores, his entire being trembling with the desperation of rest but his mind pulling the strings to keep him going.

Peter has one foot in front of the other.

Icy fire burns through his insides with his body simultaneously attempting to dose the flames and melt the ice, and every inch of him participates in a civil war to prove to him what can hurt more. A war that no one loses.

For the first time, another foot is in front of the other.

Peter pauses, sure that his mind created an illusion to trick him into resting and to stop moving his body. In the midst of connecting the only two points that he has, he barely registers half of the pain. It takes him thirty seconds to realize that he has moved from point A to point B. 

When the shock of his own actions passe over, he wraps his fears in a red bow of determination and uses it as the next dot in his game.

It takes him fifty seconds to get to point B.5, one more step in front of him.

Forty-seven more seconds to get to point C.

It takes him a total of six minutes that he doesn’t indicate to walk ten steps from his initial start before his screaming legs run out of energy to even complain and forces him to the floor. His knees crash into the tiles and his palms quickly follow suit.

“Peter!” Rhodey shouts, instantly at his side and checking for injuries. “Peter, where does it hurt?”

Peter doesn’t say anything, shaking his head as a response.

“God, I’m so sorry.” Rhodey carefully lifts the boy into his arms and marches back to his bed. “Should have made you stop after the fourth step.”

Everything from his toes to his torso feels as if each nerve is drowning itself in magma, only to come back and do it again, and Peter doesn’t know when his body is being shifted onto his very own hospital bed or whether or not he has the strength to open his eyes one more time, but he only hopes that Rhodey can see the corners of his lips lifting just slightly and rest easy.  

 

3.

“How are you going to try to save everyone in New York if you can’t even take care of yourself, Peter?” Tony asks exasperatedly, chopping an onion with more force than what should be considered safe. 

Peter says nothing, smart enough to know that it will only make things worse. The first time, Tony had given him a break and five bowls of hot and sour soup. The second time didn’t go unnoticed either and the team benched him for five days after his arms gave out mid-swing. No one knows that the third and fourth accident happened, but falling unconscious in the bathroom is difficult to hide even from a blind man, much less a genius with personal experience.

“Seriously, kid, what’s going on?” Tony questions, more distress than upset this time around. The only sound is the bubbling of the boiled water on the stove, but if Peter holds his breath, he can hear Tony’s mind running.

“Nothing, Tony.” Peter mumbles with his head tented within his arms, more tired than anything. “I just forget sometimes.”

“Three times is not sometimes.” The older groans, adding the onions to a pot of heated oil. “And I don’t even know how many other times there are.”

“There are no other times.” Peter lies. The lies are a common occurrence in his life, so much so that he barely blinks before responding with one. He would be concerned about his life choices had he cared enough to.

Tony very clearly does not believe him, but he doesn’t question him any further, which is all Peter could really care for. While the billionaire carries on cooking the risotto, Peter stares out of the glass window, wondering if the genius will notice if he just bursts out of the building and swings away.

The silence suffocates Tony, but Peter barely acknowledges it. He wishes for nothing more than the chance to crawl to the bed in his apartment, three times smaller than the one at the Compound but still five times more comfortable, and hide in the thick blankets until the next mass extinction wipes out humanity.

Peter ventures further into his blank mind. He must have been really out of it because he doesn’t remember any time ticking past before a bowl of risotto is being pushed against his folded arms. When Peter slowly lifts his head, Tony is already in front of him eating his own bowl of risotto with an open expression on his face.

“Thank you.” The teen mumbles, taking the smallest of bites.

“Not a problem.” Tony sighs.

Peter can feel the billionaire studying him, using fifty years of experience to find what is wrong with him. He pays it no mind, the food is good.

“Whatever is going on.” Tony starts after minutes of playing with his dinner. “Whatever it is. I just want you to know that you can trust me. With anything. At any time.”

Peter pauses. He looks down at his half-eaten bowl of Italian Risotto. He hadn’t even noticed Tony getting up from his seat until the older is back and another bowl is pushed into his vision in offering. When he finally speaks, his voice is more awake than it had been in weeks.

“I know, Tony. Thank you.”

 

4.

The floor tiles are always cold during the day, they are clean marble after all. They are colder at night, forcing half-awake eyes wide when it feels as if they are shuffling across the sheets of Antarctica, but Peter welcomes it. He would much rather be awake and aware than half-asleep when he can’t do as much as close his eyes, not when nightmares and blood are all he can see.

The milk expires tomorrow, or today when Peter shoots a glance over the digital clock of the stove, and he chugs the rest of it from the carton since there is not much left of it. It’s been a routine of sorts lately. Peter lays in bed at ten, but he doesn’t sleep until twelve. He wakes up at three am, at first he thought it had been a demon possession not that it would be that unbelievable considering the world he lives in, but then he thinks about how he wakes up and remembers the fear in his chest and the dampness of his skin. He lays in bed for thirty minutes, not getting any more tired from desperately chasing sleep,  until he gets up and sits in the dark kitchen until five am, the time Sam and Steve usually get up for their morning runs, and comes out of his room at seven, pretending he wasn’t up half the night.

Peter is afraid of the dark, but he is even more afraid of confronting someone if they happen to notice the kitchen lights on. It’s highly unlikely to notice the lights on when everyone sleeps on a completely different floor of the Compound, but the habit formed from his apartment is harder to break than he thought. The talk Steve and Bucky gave him after the night he passed out was almost mortifying.

Peter is afraid of the dark, but he sits in it anyway. He wiggles himself comfortable in the highest corner of the wall and waits for five am. Exhaustion doesn’t hit him until the twenty-four hour mark and with the three hours he managed to steal, the clock has been reset.

He had been literally counting the seconds since he climbed up the wall and he is at 2,134 when his super-hearing picks up the sound of soft feet padding up the stairs. They barely make any noise, but with what he hears, the steps are quicker yet relaxed. When they barely pass the island of the kitchen, they turn to his direction.

“Rough night, Peter?” Natasha asks, flipping off the hoodie of the sweater she stole from Sam.

“Yeah.” Peter whispers, still used to the quiet of the dead night. “You?”

“Yeah.”

She doesn’t flick on the lights and Peter doesn’t ask her to. Still, he sees her drink orange juice from the bottle when she realizes there isn’t any more milk, and doesn’t question why she doesn’t automatically leave when she’s finished.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She asks just as he is about to restart his counting.

“Not really.” He answers without sparing a second to realize that he actually does.

“Me either.” She draws out before he can think to ask her the same.

He thinks she does, and maybe she knows that he does too, but they won’t and maybe it’s caused by the lack of trying. Mostly on his part, he’s sure. Peter knows there is some ‘Talk about your feelings with the person you run into at night’ thing and he knows that the Avengers are probably the only people to have gone through his experience, but he just can’t. Not yet, at least.

“Hey,” Natasha calls conversationally. He looks down and finds her staring at a bowl of fruits thoughtfully. “You wanna build a fort?”

“Huh?” Because that’s not what he was really expecting her to say.

“A fort. You want to help me build one?” She asks again.

He doesn’t have to think about his answer very long, he was literally counting seconds before she came.

“Yeah, sure.” His bones barely ache as he jumps onto the marble tiles soundlessly, too accustomed to the position to be. “Out of blankets right?”

“What else would we use, Peter?” She laughs quietly, leading the way towards the spacious living room.  

They finish the fort within twenty minutes. Natasha had him steal any available blankets he could find, and he managed to collect eleven blankets and Tony even gave him his own when he found him upside down on the ceiling, a huge pile covering everything but Peter’s legs. He barely questioned it and went back to bed after he grumbled about the lack of milk.

When he comes back the second time after Natasha sends him out again to collect the pillows, he finds the majority of the living room’s space occupied by the most complex and strategically engineered fort he had ever seen in his life. He uses his web shooters, wearing them as often as an everyday bracelet, to prevent certain corners of blankets from falling and ruining the whole thing.

When Peter enters through the fort’s fairy-light entrance, Natasha is setting up a 3D hologram and he gets right into setting the pillows in comfortable positions.

They don’t speak for the rest of the night, drowning out the silence with the sound of High School Musical. When the clock hits five, Sam and Steve trade out their morning runs to watch the sequel and Peter doesn’t remember the last time he willingly fell asleep, but he allows himself to in the safety of heroes. 

 

5.

Peter gasps in pain, something inside of his body fighting to be let out, probably a broken rib. Blood drips freely from his broken nose, and he knows someone is going to have to break it again because his bittersweet healing factor is mending it in all the wrong ways. Concrete and rubble bury him, and the fear that no one will find him in time makes him hyperventilate.

The battle went by so quickly, but Peter never felt more tired in his life. It was worse than the Vulture and the warehouse, infinitely worse because there were  _ so many aliens.  _ They were everywhere, they were on him, and he thought he was dead. Dead, again. They were going to tear him apart to get that stupid, ugly gauntlet.

But then Captain America,  _ Captain America _ , saved him, and the lady on fire saved all of them. If he makes it out, he will be sure to thank them.  _ If he makes it out. _

He lost track of the battle after all the ladies surrounded him and jumped into battle. He wishes he hadn’t been fighting for his life because they looked so cool and he could actually admire them. He took down as much as he could, fighting back bile and that sour taste in his mouth when his body fought against  _ him. _

One second he was fighting the scariest, biggest alien dog on the field and the next, he was being crushed by a dead Chitauri Leviathan. He can’t remember how long he was out of commission for, if he ever closed his eyes or not. But outside of the suffocating darkness, it was quieter than it had been before.

“H-help…” He croaks, dust making a home in his lungs. “H-h-h _ elp! Please… _ ”

May taught him to be polite when he needed something, and he was trying his best to be, but there was  _ no one.  _ No one heard him. No one knows he is trapped under a goddamn leviathan. No one will know where he was when he died. Getting dusted was so much more peaceful than this. No one would know he’s dead. His pleads were worthless.

“ _ I- _ I can’t… I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.” Peter gasps, his chest barely being able to be moved by the weight above him. It’s a harsh wonder as to why there is still life in him. “ _ I can’t… _ ”

It’s hard yet easy to close his eyes. Something somewhere screams, but his aching body is quieting. His head hurts. He welcomes the quiet.

 

~~~

After hours under the darkness and a crushing heaviness over his body, Peter’s eyes ache at the sudden increase of sunlight and the weight of the Leviathan disintegrating. His eyes are completely shut when he hears a horrified gasp and metal hands are under his body, lifting him out of the dust and dirt. The familiar sound of the repulsors and the whirling of an Iron suit lures him back to sleep, completely disregarding the pleads of the blonde lady holding him close to her chest.

 

~~~

 

When he wakes up, May is clutching his broken hand with one hand and using the other to muffle the sobs that rack her body. Peter can’t tell how long she’s been crying, but he can smell the lack of personal hygiene through the crusted blood in his nose and intelligently decides that it’s been a while.

“ _ M- _ m _ ay. _ ” He barely makes a sound before her head shoots up, eyes red and face nearly swollen with tears. She looks like a disaster, and he must look even worse because a new wave of tears flows down her face.

“ _ Peter… _ ” His eyes sting at the pure desperation and relief in her voice. He knows that he just saw her two days ago, but she looks at him as if he disappeared forever. “Peter, Peter,  _ Peter… _ ”

Tears fall freely down his face as May peppers kisses all over his face, holding his hands as tight as she possibly could and he doesn’t give a single thought to the pain.

“May,” He coughs weakly, “W-what happened?” 

He squeezes her hand, not giving a thought to the pain that it causes him, when her lip quivers and a whimper slips through them. 

"May?" He tries.

"Why don't you rest for a while, first?" His heart drops and he forces his body to sit up properly. 

"What happened, May?" Fear underlines his voice, and May caresses his cheek softly with a knowing look. Tears fall from his face before he even realizes and a sob breaks out from his chest when she pulls him close to hers.

"We won, Peter," her lips feel cold when they press onto his forehead, "It's over. That's all that matters now." 

 

+1

It was a nice day, he thinks. There isn’t a cloud in the sky, and the sun isn’t scorching. Birds chirp softly as they fly overhead, not at all affected by the event taking place.

It would have been the best day of Peter's life, under different circumstances. Every single hero he has ever looked up to, or even heard about, was within hugging distance. But the one he wanted to hold the most was somewhere he couldn't yet reach.

The pain in his chest increases the longer he stares at the floating arc reactor. He experienced three funerals and said goodbye to too many parents, and he really should have been smart enough to realize that it wasn’t going to get better. It was always going to hurt, and Peter was dumb to think otherwise. 

There wasn’t a speech. No words could properly describe the good that Tony Stark was, so there was no use in trying. They all stood by the lake silently with stone faces, and when the bed of flowers drifted where their eyes couldn’t reach, everyone began to split off to their own. While May was offering her condolences to the new widow, Peter let his mind go blank and allowed his feet to create a destination. 

The Starks’ little home was comfortable, and Peter could tell why Pepper wanted the funeral to take place here. The wood of the house was vastly different from the pristine marble of the Compound, and the sounds of the city were replaced by peaceful silence. It was a place where no-one would ever expect an Avenger to live. It was a life Peter hadn’t known Tony would want, but he knows that five years is enough time to warrant some type of change. 

He walks until he ends up at a tent, small and purple, and he immediately knows that it must belong to little Morgan Stark. If the size of it didn’t give it away, the toys that littered the surrounding ground sure did. It looks so innocently made, and if she had just a couple more years with her dad, their best memories would have been made here.  _ Just a couple more years. _

He isn’t sure how long he stands staring at the draped cloth, but it’s long enough to warrant the footsteps padding behind him. 

“My daddy made it for me,” she says, voice small and confused. “I had a scary dream and then he made it for me..”

“That’s nice,” he whispers. 

“And when he comes back, I’m going to make him a  _ bigger  _ one.” Gone is the confusion and pure excitement fills her voice. 

A sob erupts from his throat. 

“Oh, no!” She shrieks, and Peter squeaks in surprise when little arms suddenly wrap around his leg. “Don’t cry!” 

“I’m not,” he cries. 

“Don’t worry, Mr. Spidey! I’ll protect you until my daddy comes back!” 

“Will you?” He chokes out, only mildly surprised at the fact that Tony’s daughter knew who he was.

“I will, I will!” She nods determinedly before putting her hand out in a position that draws out more of Peter’s tears. “Pew pew! I’ll protect you! It’s what my daddy says.” 

She is nearly four feet tall with marshmallows for cheeks, yet she holds every ounce of confidence her dad used to carry with pride. He can’t help but smile at the sight she makes. 

“Thank you, Ms. Stark,” he whispers weakly. “I feel safer already.” 

She beams, and his heart hurts when he thinks that one day she will realize what really happened. And while Morgan hums a little song, Peter makes a promise that like him, she won’t be alone when she does.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
